In his cell lay the parchment-leaves of a psalm-book, which had been written, and illustrated by Folkard's masterly hand. Ekkehard had been commissioned to finish up the first letter on each page, with the precious gold-colour, which the Abbot had lately bought from a Venetian merchant; and by adding faint golden lines at the crowns, sceptres and swords, as well as at the borders of the mantles, to give the last touch to the figures. He took up parchments and colours, and brought them over to his companion, that he might put the finishing strokes to the work himself. Folkard was just about, to compose a new picture; David playing the lute, and dancing before the ark of the Covenant. He did not look up, and Ekkehard silently left the studio again. After this he bent his steps to the library, there to fetch the Virgil, and when he stood all alone in the high-arched hall, amongst the silent parchments, a feeling of melancholy came over him. Even lifeless things, when one is about to take leave of them, seem to possess something of a soul, and to share some of the feelings, which are moving our own hearts. The books were his best friends. He knew them all, and knew who had written them. Some of the handwritings reminded him of companions, whom death had gathered already. "What will the new life, which begins to-morrow, bring to me?" he thought, whilst a solitary tear started into his eye. At that moment his gaze fell on the small, metal-bound glossary, in which the holy Gallus, not knowing the German language, had had a translation of the most familiar words and sentences, written down by the priest of Arbon. Then Ekkehard bethought himself, how the founder of the monastery, had once set out, with so little help and preparation, a stranger into heathen lands; and how his God and his courageous heart, had protected him in all dangers and sorrows. His spirits rose; he kissed the little book, took the Virgil from the book-shelf, and then turned to go. "Whoever carries away this book, shall receive a thousand lashes of the scourge; may palsy and leprosy attack him," was written on the title-page. Ekkehard cut it out. Once more he looked around, as if to take a final leave, of all the books. At that moment a rustling was heard in the wall, and the large sketch which the architect Gerung had once drawn, when Abbot Hartmuth had wanted a new building to be added to the monastery, fell to the ground, raising a cloud of dust. Ekkehard did not regard this occurrence in the light of a presentiment or warning. On walking along the passage of the upper storey, he passed an open chamber. This was the snuggery of the old men. The blind Thieto who had been Abbot before Cralo, until his waning eyesight had forced him to resign, was sitting there. A window was open, so that the old man could breathe freely and enjoy the warm sunny air. With him, Ekkehard had spent many an hour, in friendly converse. The blind man recognized his step and called him in.